


Vulnerability

by with_bleeding_hands



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, F/F, Holodecks/Holosuites, Orgasm Control, POV First Person, Strap-Ons, The Borg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-03-15 00:37:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3431582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/with_bleeding_hands/pseuds/with_bleeding_hands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Janeway, Seven, and being able to feel vulnerable in front of each other. J7. Not all that explicit, but I wanted to be safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seven of Nine

**Author's Note:**

> Two-part J7 fic, the first chapter from Seven of Nine's point of view, the second from Captain Janeway's. I was surprised by how much I love writing in first person for Seven; it's probably because I am a giant nerd. The second half was much harder to get through because I rarely feel like writing explicit scenes, but I managed eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Borg-speak is bizarrely fun, if difficult, to write.

Even if I were unable to measure my systolic and diastolic rhythms, I would feel very aware of my heartbeat, which seems much faster and more powerful than usual. My throat is dry and I am certain the increased blood flow to my face is visible to Kathryn as a dark blush.

Kathryn is standing before me wearing nothing but a thin bathrobe made out of—no, I remind myself, focus on the emotions and the sensations, not “getting bogged down” in the details with which my remaining Borg implants provide me. That is what Kathryn calls it; “getting bogged down”. Kathryn first mentioned this when we kissed for the first time and I became distracted by the fluctuating measurements of the pressure Kathryn was applying to my lips. “Just relax and kiss me,” Kathryn said. “Don’t think about anything that can be measured in units. A famous 20th century Earth physicist—Albert Einstein—once said that not everything that counts can be counted, and not everything that can be counted counts.”

“Earthly platitudes are irrelevant,” I protested, flustered by my difficulty with this new skill that was supposed to come so naturally to humans.

“But the unquantifiables of kissing aren’t. At least, I hope not,” Kathryn said, stroking my cheek with one hand.

It was not easy. When I managed to shift my focus away from units of measurement, I was overwhelmed by the influx of emotions and sensations I experienced through this new method of strengthening my bond with Kathryn, and I had become careless. I began accidentally damaging Kathryn, leaving bruises on her lips as I forgot to modulate my enhanced Borg strength. After a week solid of coming to Kathryn’s quarters to kiss her each night had ended with accidentally damaging her—if not kissing her too hard, then it was my clutching hands leaving bruises on the captain’s back or shoulders—our Sunday night together ended with my Borg hand cracking two of Kathryn’s ribs. After the Doctor finished repairing the damage, I carefully avoided Kathryn for the next few days until she called me to her quarters and asked me directly why I was doing so. I replied that I had judged myself an unsuitable romantic partner for her, since I could not kiss her without inflicting damage. In response, she took me in her arms and kissed my cheek, telling me she hoped our bond was strong enough to maintain a relationship despite my ungainly attempts at learning to kiss. In recent weeks, I have become much more adept, and the experience is extremely pleasurable. Five days ago, Kathryn allowed me to trace her sternocleomastoid muscle with my lips for the first time, leaving a trail of kisses from the clavicular origin to the sternal origin. She finds my neck aesthetically pleasing and has done this for me many times; the fact that I reciprocated a gesture she performed only enhanced the pleasurable feelings I experienced.

But what is relevant now is that Kathryn is in my presence dressed in a garment so translucent that I can see the dark circles of her areolae, and she will shortly be removing the garment to get into the bathtub, where I will be joining her after I disrobe. This was my idea; after Kathryn began allowing me to kiss her neck, I shared with her that I find the sensation of her skin against mine both soothing and immensely enjoyable, and that I desire the experience of her undressed body in my arms, with me also undressed for maximal surface area contact. It is the thought of my beautiful Captain lying naked in my arms while we rest in the warm water that is causing my heart to race.

“Seven?” Kathryn reaches up to cup my face in her hands. “If you’re having second thoughts, you may return to cargo bay 2.”

“No!” The vehemence in my own voice startles me, and I reach for Kathryn, brushing my fingertips against her clavicles, aching for contact. She takes my hands in hers and kisses my palms. I begin to tremble. “You mistake my anticipation for reluctance.”

Kathryn moves her hands to the tie of her robe and looks up at me. “If you do start feeling reluctant, let me know.”

“I am currently experiencing the diametrical opposite of reluctance.” My voice has become low and hoarse with what I identify as desire.

Kathryn undoes the tie and I watch intently as she slides her robe off her shoulders and the cloth pools around her feet, leaving her bare. I am unable to hold back a gasp as I take in the sight of her naked body for the first time. My eyes trace every line and curve I was unable to see accurately before, eventually settling on her breasts. They are small and round, the perfect size to be cradled in my hands, and for a moment—I could not give a measurement of exactly how long, even if I wanted to—I imagine performing that action. I continue gazing at her, searching my mind for the appropriate adjective to describe her body. “Beautiful” seems inadequate; I settle on “exquisite”.

It is only when she shies away from me that I realize she does not know how to interpret my silence. I reach for her again, taking her by the waist as gently as I know how, and I tell her succinctly what I am thinking: “You are exquisite, my Captain”. Her head inclines involuntarily as she blushes.

“Come on, Seven,” she says, giving a low chuckle that I can tell is not sincerely jovial. “Your compliments are always understated. Anything that…that _complimentary_ has to be sarcasm.”

I slide my hands from her waist to her lower back, luxuriating in the warmth and softness of her skin, the gesture bringing us into closer proximity. “I am entirely serious,” I whisper. “I briefly had difficulty selecting the appropriate word to describe my perception of your body, but I stand by it.” I move my hands slowly, wondering if it would be possible for me to grow weary of touching her. I hypothesize that the length of time such a thing would take would be immeasurable. My fingertips come to rest on her pelvic crests. “The Borg consider humans physically weak and inefficient. I have not extensively studied human physiology, but physically, I find you…” my breath catches in my throat and I find myself again studying her body. I am unable to keep my eyes off her breasts. I find it fascinating how their shape appears to have changed now that her nipples have stiffened. I am struck by a powerful desire, crashing over me with no warning, to move my hands to her breasts and touch the delicate flesh. I manage to quell this desire by telling myself that human women find being touched in such a way by a romantic partner inherently sexual, and I am neither emotionally nor physically prepared for intimate relations. I am curious, yes, but not prepared. I clear my throat and attempt to continue speaking. “Prior to this moment, I would have described your body as both aesthetically pleasing and in excellent physical condition. However, I believe I chose an accurate descriptor as motivated by my feelings for you."

Kathryn's eyes fix on my face, widened significantly, a softness in their expression that causes a pleasant warmth to suffuse through my body. "Seven, that might be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me."

Again, I can think of nothing to say. I squeeze her pelvic crests lightly and lean forward to kiss her forehead, hoping the gesture is sufficient to convey my appreciation for that statement. I consider myself inexperienced in the ways of romance and still harbor concerns that I am under qualified as a romantic partner for my Captain. I have found the Doctor's lessons to be woefully inadequate, especially when applied to Kathryn's and my relationship. Kathryn has taught me much, and I am relieved to see evidence that I am learning quickly, or at least well.

I am distracted from this train of thought by Kathryn's fingers playing with the zipper of my garment. "Would you rather take this off yourself, or is it all right if I do it?" she asks me in a low voice. I tremble in anticipation.

"I would enjoy you undressing me," I tell her. I turn around, and Kathryn slowly unzips my garment, giving me ample time to protest or change my mind, as she always does when we take a new step in our physical relationship. I have never seen her undressed before; I believe she has seen me naked when the Doctor had just removed all of the Borg implants that were not essential to my functioning as a human individual, but our relationship was vastly different then. I gasp inadvertently as I feel the fingertips of her non-dominant hand touching my neck and sliding down in the wake of the hand pulling on my zipper. The air in my Captain's quarters is 20 degrees C, but her fingertips feel infinitely warmer on my skin than does the air. As Kathryn unzips my garment to approximately my first lumbar vertebra, I feel her lips touch the skin covering my right shoulder blade, a small, chaste gesture that I find endearing. It is when I feel Kathryn's fingers tracing my spine when I suddenly remember why I had been considering proposing this new step in our relationship for weeks before mentioning it: my implants.

Of course, my Captain has seen my optical, cortical, temporomandibular, and humeral implants. She is accustomed to them, but I have concerns—perhaps irrational, but in matters of my relationship with Kathryn, I often have difficulty distinguishing rational concerns from irrational ones—about her reaction to seeing my remaining implants. When my cortical implant was failing and I expected to die, Kathryn assured me that should I die, she would mourn the loss of me as a person, not as the ex-Borg individual Seven of Nine she was trying to mold back into Annika Hansen. I believe she understands that I will never one day become human in the way she and the Doctor first expected, but how will she react when she sees my remaining Borg implants?

I find out almost immediately; she uses both hands to move aside the cloth covering my spinal clamp and traces it with her fingertips. The gesture is not hesitant or repulsed, but affectionate, curious, gentle. I feel her lips on my shoulder again. "Is this okay?" she asks me, circling the clamp with the pad of one index finger.

I have to take a deep breath before replying; her touch is very pleasurable, distractingly so. "The skin surrounding my implants is unusually sensitive. Your touch there is pleasurable, but much more pressure might be overstimulating."

"I see." Kathryn carefully massages the skin just above the implant. Pleasure radiates along my lumbar and sacral nerves, and I gasp. "Too much?"

"No. That is...perfect."

“Is it like this for all your implants?” she asks me, kissing my shoulder again.

“It is reasonable to assume so.” Suddenly I realize that I have been given an opportunity to flirt, and I feel a rush of pride that I recognized this opportunity. “I believe I would enjoy you doing the same with the rest of my implants.”

“Is that a request?” Kathryn’s voice has taken on a tone I consider seductive. I quake at the thought of her continuing to undress me, not only without the fear of her reacting negatively to my implants but with anticipation of her touching the skin surrounding them the way she is now.

“It is,” I breathe.

Kathryn’s fingertips apply the same pressure again, and this time I am prepared, and the involuntary noise I make is not a gasp of surprise but a moan. “Tell me if it hurts.”

At first, the statement puzzles me, as I have already expressed nothing but pleasure in response to her stimulation of the skin near my remaining spinal clamp. Then I remember the day in sickbay when I visited her after the Doctor had removed her Borg implants after the destruction of Unimatrix Zero; she mentioned that she was still experiencing pain where her spinal clamps had been. Stardate 54014.4: the day I first initiated physical contact with my Captain, and it was for the purpose of comforting her when I could see she was in pain. “Do you still experience pain where your spinal clamps were once, Kathryn?” I ask her.

“Sometimes. If I sleep funny.” She kisses the base of my neck. “It could be a lot worse.”

“Please continue touching the skin surrounding my implant,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. I feel as if I should express gratitude for braving the risk of her undergoing assimilation for my sake and for the sake of the resistance, but I am unable to choose the appropriate words. Kathryn continues kissing the base of my neck as she works her fingertips around my spinal clamp, new sensations shooting down my sciatic nerves as she reaches the sides of the oblong implant. Again, I make involuntary noises of pleasure. The sensations are almost overwhelming, but Kathryn’s touch is soft and the experience is wholly enjoyable. But when she touches the skin below the clamp and I feel a jolt along my pudenal nerve, I cry out loudly in protest. The sensation might have been pleasant were I more accustomed to sexual arousal, but it was so overpowering as to be very unpleasant, almost painful, and I wonder if Kathryn had been worried about this.

A length of time even I find imperceptible passes between my startled noise and Kathryn wrapping her arms around me, holding me close to her and apologizing. The silky warmth of her skin against the exposed skin of my back is immensely soothing. I turn around in her arms and return the embrace, feeling myself relax even further as her hands slide up and down my back. I feel her lips move against my clavicles as she murmurs, “Did I hurt you?”

I rest my cheek against the top of her head. “It was not pain that I experienced. The stimulation with which you were providing me was quite pleasurable, but when you touched me below my implant, I felt it in…in my…” I have never before hesitated to name a body part that human sensibilities would deem shameful or embarrassing, but it is different when I am discussing my sexual organs with a woman with whom I expect to one day be sexually intimate. “…in my groin. My pudenal nerve was stimulated. Perhaps it would have been pleasurable to someone more accustomed to sexual pleasure, but for me it was overwhelming.”

“I understand.” Kathryn kisses my suprasternal notch. “Should I leave your implants alone?”

“No. Please, continue touching the skin surrounding my implants…with the exception of just below my spinal clamp. I do not believe I will experience the same aversive response again.”

“I see.” Kathryn steps back slightly from our embrace, her hands moving to the cloth covering my shoulders. “May I finish taking this off of you?”

“Please.”

I watch Kathryn’s face as she eases my biometric garment down my arms so its upper half hangs about my waist. Her palms slide tenderly down my sides to tug the material down over my hips. It falls down my legs to gather around my ankles, and I am naked. Kathryn gazes at me, lips parted, her facial expression one of wonder. It is an expression more suited to witnessing spontaneous stabilization of particle 010 than examining my unclothed body. She rests her hands on my waist and tilts her head up to make eye contact with me. There is a warm, loving, awed look on her face that makes me feel as if my gastrocnemius muscles might suddenly lose their ability to hold me upright. “God, you’re beautiful,” she whispers.

More blood rushes to my face. I have come to understand that humans often consider me conventionally attractive, but I have never taken pride in that or even given it much thought. But with Kathryn, I care very much that she considers me beautiful. Her facial expression is almost reverent as she touches me lightly below my suprasternal notch and trails her fingers down to my sternal implant. I follow her eyes, which linger on my breasts for a moment, but then they close halfway and she leans forward to kiss the base of my neck while her fingers begin carefully massaging the skin above my sternal implant. Pleasurable sensations radiate through my upper torso and I moan.

“You like that?” Kathryn asks me between kisses.

“Yes,” I manage, feeling as though I am about to lose my ability to speak.

Kathryn moves her hand, fingertips now working the skin beside my implant, her knuckles brushing against my left breast. “Is this okay?” she murmurs. “I can move to another implant if you want.”

I presume she is asking if I am comfortable with her touching my breast. “This amount of contact is acceptable.”

“Just acceptable?” she slides her hand up to my shoulder.

“Enjoyable,” I correct myself, abashed at my selection of an inaccurate word at such a moment.

She smiles gently up at me. “Why don’t I get the water running?”

I accede, feeling as though—in human parlance—I could kick myself. I would have quite enjoyed Kathryn’s continued touch on my breasts, especially if she were to allow me to reciprocate. I watch her as she perches on the edge of the bathtub and turns the antiquated knobs. She has a sentimental attachment to outmoded bathing technology and prefers bathing to sonic showers. While I do not understand such attachments to inefficient technology, I do understand how pleasurable a bonding experience it might take a bath with Kathryn, so we have added a bathtub to what we have begun calling our “intimacy room”. When Kathryn first began teaching me how to kiss, she asked me to design a holosuite program containing a room where I would feel comfortable engaging in physical affection with her. She describes the result as “surprisingly cozy”.

I move closer as she tests the water with her fingers and I caress her back with one hand, sliding my palm and fingers up and down her spine. She turns to me, smiling. “I think the water is the right temperature. Want to try?”

I keep one hand resting on the gentle dip of her lumbar curve, reaching into the water with my other hand. “40 degrees C. This should be an excellent temperature for our purposes.”

Kathryn climbs into the water and lets out a long sigh. My body temperature remains the same, but it feels as if it rises as I watch Kathryn relax completely, an expression of bliss on her face. After a moment of enjoying the hot water, she opens her eyes and holds out a hand to me. My heartbeat feels almost unbearably rapid as I lower myself carefully into the water. The temperature feels too high for a few seconds, but I adjust to the novelty of it and understand why Kathryn finds it so enjoyable. I find a comfortable position, lying prone with my head resting against one corner of the tub, just my head and neck above the water. I am about to request further physical contact with Kathryn when I feel her hand touch my shoulder. She inches toward me, smiling, her eyes focusing on my face and her expression loving. “Is this your first bath since you were liberated from the Collective?” she asks.

“Yes. It is pleasurable.” Lately, I have been using that word more frequently. It rarely seems adequate to describe what I am feeling when I am with Kathryn, but I fear that I cannot effectively communicate through the use of stronger descriptors. I am hampered by my usual sparse, pessimistic (at least, according to many others on Voyager) speech patterns; choosing words that accurately describe how I feel would appear disingenuous. Kathryn mistakenly thought I was mocking her when I described the sight of her unclad body and I sincerely hope I never again produce that reaction in her.

Kathryn kisses my cheek, then my neck, leaving a trail of kisses along my sternocleomastoid muscle. She does this often; I enjoy it immensely. Her kisses are much more cautious than usual, almost shy. I assume she is attempting to prevent me from being overwhelmed by new sensations, but instead of finding the sensation of being surrounded by warm water difficult to process, I find it soothing. I find her small waist with my hands and pull her closer, asking her if she will permit me to hold her. She laughs softly and says yes. I wrap my arms around her. She settles down in my lap, her head against the ball of my humerus. I recall that the Borg consider humans physically frail and inferior, and while I do not consider my Captain “frail” and not in any way physically inferior, she feels so small and light and fragile in my arms.

As recently as three minutes ago, I had considered myself emotionally unprepared to be sexually intimate with Kathryn. She shifts slightly in my arms, finding a comfortable position, and as I feel the movement and friction between my unclothed body and her warm, soft, beautiful skin, the knowledge is suddenly clear to me: I trust her completely with my body. She could lift me from the tub, carry me to one of the comfortable surfaces in our intimacy room, and ask me to “make love” (the phrase she has chosen for it it when she have discussed the possibility) with her, and I would not only allow it, I would welcome it. I imagine her doing just that. I quake with pleasure at the thought of her strong, gentle hands moving over my body the way they have done on the occasions that she has massaged my shoulders after several games of Velocity. My illusion is quickly dispelled when I remember that I could not even stand my Captain’s touch near my spinal clamp; at this time, it would be impossible for me to experience sexual pleasure, no matter how gentle and loving Kathryn is with me. And I am still learning how to be gentle. While overwhelmed with desire, I would only damage her delicate human body.

Kathryn hears me begin to cry and, thinking she has upset me, begins to pull away. I cry out in protest—wordlessly, as I have momentarily lost the ability to appropriately verbalize my thoughts—and wrap my arms around her, holding her tightly to me. She kisses my shoulder. “What’s the matter, darling?” she asks in a low voice that rarely fails to soothe me; now is one of those rare times when it fails to do so.

“The Borg have taken so much from me,” I manage. “My parents, my childhood, my humanity, and now I realize they have taken my ability to be intimate with you.” My voice is choked. It is strange to hear it that way.

“Hang on,” says Kathryn. I can tell that she wants to pull back and look at my face, but I have my arms locked around her so tightly a tractor beam could not pry us apart. “No clothes, in the bathtub together...this is pretty intimate right now. And it’s not like the Borg are going to swoop in and beam you off the ship.”

I kiss her hair. “I was using ‘intimate’ as a euphemism. I was specifically considering the possibility of us engaging in sexual relations.”

“Seven,” she says tenderly, “sex is certainly…nice, but it’s not the end-all be-all of romantic relationships. If you feel like you haven’t gone through enough…human development, or whatever you want to call it, and you aren’t ready, that’s fine.”

“And if I am never ready?” I say, unable to stop crying.

Kathryn kisses the sensitive place between my earlobe and mastoid process. She is trying very hard to calm me down. I feel briefly guilty that I am not calming down. “Then you will still be my Seven and I will still love you.”

“But if I want to. If I am ready emotionally, but my body is too unaccustomed to sexual pleasure…”

“I thought you weren’t ready.” Her voice is still soft. It is not an accusation.

“As recently as a few moments ago, I was not. But, Kathryn, I…I desire you.”

“I see. Does that…upset you?”

“It upsets me that I desire sexual contact with you but am unable to act on that desire because of…of my Borg nature!”

“Shh, Seven, shh.” She hugs me gently. “You mean like what happened when I was touching your spinal clamp?”

“Yes. I was disappointed when you stopped touching my breast. I desired further contact. The thought of it was pleasurable, but I realized that I would only damage you if we tried to engage in intimate relations and I would also not be able to enjoy any pleasure you tried to give me.”

“I can see how that would be frustrating. But it might not always be that way, and if it is, we’ll find other ways to, well, physically express our feelings.”

“I thought sex was integral to romantic relationships.”

“I said it wasn’t the end-all be-all, which would mean no, it isn’t integral. It doesn’t have to be.”

“Kathryn,” I whisper. “I want you.”

“Is that just because of how you feel about me, or because you think you’re supposed to want sex?”

I move one of my hands to her hair. Beautiful, thick, dark red hair. One of my favorite features of hers, immensely pleasurable to touch. “It is because I desire you.”

“Okay.” Her voice is still gentle. This time, it does calm me slightly. “We can work toward that, if you want. Is there anything you want to try now?”

When she was touching the skin surrounding my sternal implant, I wanted her to continue, but at the moment I badly do not want to stop holding her. “Not now. Perhaps the next time we use this room.”

“One more question, Seven.”

“Yes?”

“You aren’t thinking about sex because you feel like I’m pressuring you, are you?”

“You have never pressured me,” I insist.

“I never meant to, and you may know that intellectually, but did it ever feel like I was?” Her voice is so soft that I can only hear her with my enhanced Borg senses. That lifts my mood slightly; perhaps my Borg nature is not only a hindrance to closeness with my Captain.

“I have never felt any pressure from you to be sexually intimate,” I assure her. “Our current position is causing me to think of how enjoyable I would find it if we…” Earlier, I erred in not prefacing my description of Kathryn’s body by insisting that I was being unusually complimentary, not sarcastic. I will not make the same mistake twice. “Your assessment of our current position as ‘intimate’ is accurate. Being in contact with such a...a large surface area of your skin made me think of other similar possibilities. I truly mean it when I say I want badly to make love with you and am disappointed that I am physically unready for that.”

“I would like that too.” She squeezes me briefly. “When you’re ready. And it won’t be just you learning at that point. Did you know you’re my first romantic relationship with a woman?”

I loosen my grip slightly on her, hoping my tight embrace did not damage her. “I suspected that, but you never explicitly told me.”

“Can I kiss you?” She has noticed that I am not holding her as tightly.

“Please.”

Kathryn leans up and kisses me deeply. I slide one hand over her back, touching her beneath the surface of the water, savoring the kiss. “A lot of this relationship is new for me too, darling. You aren’t the only one who’s doing some exploring here…and is a little nervous about it sometimes.”

“You still have more experience than I. And I trust you completely.”

Kathryn kisses my zygomatic bone just beside my cortical implant, and I feel her soft tongue trace it. I gasp with the pleasure of the contact. “Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

She smiles and leans back, reaching for the shampoo. “What do you say we do more of that later? For now, let’s actually take a bath. Your first bath.”

“I would like that. Both of those suggestions.” I blush again, and my cheeks stretch as I smile involuntarily at my difficulty with words when I am with Kathryn.

I watch her wet her hair and rub shampoo into it. She is beautiful. Speaking of my difficulty verbally expressing myself, I feel grateful for her expressing her nervousness. I am unsure how to tell her that. “Kathryn?”

She looks up from massaging the shampoo through her hair. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me know that I am not the one who feels…vulnerable.”

Kathryn takes my hand—my Borg hand—and kisses it. “You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I finally know what that hollow just below the collarbones is; the suprasternal notch. I had to learn a quite a bit of anatomy vocab for this fic.


	2. Kathryn Janeway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long x_x

“See, my Kathryn?” Seven kisses me just below my ear. “I was correct that you are sufficiently flexible for this.”

I struggle experimentally against the restraints, and I feel the cushion pushing against the back of my neck and the cuffs pulling at my ankles. My toes curl around nothing and the coolness of the air raises goose bumps on the backs of my legs. “Good thing I stretched,” I mutter.

Seven presses her soft, full lips to my neck. “How does it feel?”

The idea of bondage is to restrict movement, and it’s certainly doing its job; I can’t put my legs down. I can’t place why, but I’m not wild about how it feels to have my legs forcefully spread open like this. They certainly end up wrapped around Seven’s waist in a similar position often enough. I shouldn’t feel uncomfortable with this, right? The words stick in my throat.

Seven notices I’m having trouble responding and tries again. “Status, my Kathryn?”

That’s much easier to answer. “Yellow alert,” I manage.

“I am aware this is a new experience for you. Try to relax.”

Right. Sure.

Seven leans over and kisses me. Okay, that helps. Her hands—even the metal integrated into her Borg hand—are warm, gliding up and down my sides. It took her a while to learn how to be this gentle—Borg enhanced strength is no joke—but she’s a good learner. Eventually she leaves off kissing my lips to kiss my neck. My head tilts back automatically. As long as I focus on her kisses, I don’t notice the cold air on my restrained legs. Or at least I didn’t until that thought crossed my mind.

I must have made a noise of protest at that thought, because she stops kissing me and looks down at my face. I resist the urge to turn away, but she kisses my forehead. “Keep breaths, my Kathryn. I know you’re tense.”

Somehow I manage not to say anything, since I know if I open my mouth, I’ll start asking to skip straight to aftercare now. Fortunately I only have to hold my tongue for a minute or so before I feel Seven’s lips on my neck again. Not for the first time tonight, I’m glad Seven didn’t feel like shackling my wrists; I wrap my hands around hanks of her hair. It’s so soft and fine, almost like a baby’s. It may not be the same texture it would have been had she been allowed to go through puberty normally. Seven has revealed to me that she has a few small bald spots where even our EMH couldn’t stimulate growth of new hair, but her hairstyle conceals that. At first, she didn’t take her hair down when we were making love or even when I was just teaching her how to kiss, and I thought she was keeping her hair up for reasons of practicality and that if I asked her to take it down, she would inform me that it would be more efficient to keep her hair up so it wouldn’t get in her face—though she’d more likely say something more like “interfere with her vision”—while we were together. But one night I finally succumbed to how badly I wanted to see her lying on her back with her hair spread out behind her head like solar flares and started pulling out her hairpins, and she stopped me, telling me she didn’t think I would want to see her with her hair down. That was when she revealed to me that she had bald spots and was afraid that I would find them “unappealing”. I was puzzled; not only was this Seven of goddamn Nine being concerned that something as minor as a few bald spots would make her unattractive to me, I wouldn’t love her any less if she were bald as an egg. But then, she has never seemed to understand how beautiful she is or how little that ultimately matters (although I have to say, she is a damn fine-looking woman).

My decision to stop using words lest I blurt out something I’ll regret later flies fight out the airlock as Seven’s lips meet the swell of my breast. At least the only thing I say is her name. I feel a rush of relief when she doesn’t ask me for my “status” and goes ahead and moves her mouth to my nipple. I cry out and pull her hair, and she strokes my face briefly before moving one hand to my other breast. I can get through this if I keep focusing on how good that feels. She rests her weight on my hips and I immediately relax a little. Having my legs forced open to make room for Seven? I’m more than okay with that.

Seven plays with my breasts (god I love her hands) for a few moments while I squirm, my body arching into her, searching for contact. I’m about ready to plead for more when she shifts to move one hand to cup the join of my legs. “Are you ready for me to penetrate you, Kathryn?”

As soon as she moved, I could feel the cold air on my legs again and I’m sure the damn goose bumps came back. I don’t trust my voice, so I nod, and two of her fingers slide into me to the hilt. Despite my discomfort, I moan, and she strokes me slowly. She’s become a champion at touching me just right, and this is usually when I really get into riding her fingers, but every time I move, I feel the air on the backs of my legs and I hate it, and I’m torn between lying still to keep myself from noticing how stupid the harness makes me feel and doing what I’d really like to be doing, which is fucking myself senseless on Seven’s perfect fingers.

Of course, she notices. “Would you prefer we move to the strap-on now?”

And have Seven between my hips? Oh hell yes. “Please,” I beg, because I’m willing to beg for that. She kisses my forehead and calls up the strap-on that she designed specially for me, so when she slides it into me and I bite back a groan as I feel it filling me up, it feels like it belongs there inside me. Seven gives me a long kiss as she begins to rock her hips slowly. I can feel her full, soft breasts against mine. There aren’t words for how good it feels. This is when I remember she’s part machine; no mere human could keep a rhythm so deliciously steady and just how I like it. I press my face to her shoulder to stifle the noises I can’t help making.

I feel her wrap one hand around a hank of my hair and pull, moving my head back so I can’t muffle my cries against her shoulder. “Let me hear you, Kathryn,” she soothes.

Oh, damn, is she really pulling this? Maybe it was a few too many men who gave me funny looks when they heard me moan, maybe it’s the fact that I have never been fond of the sound of my voice, but I hate hearing myself make noise in bed. Seven wants me to get used to it because she doesn’t like seeing me self-conscious. Or maybe she’d just rather I shamelessly call out her name all the time.

And her timing was spot on. She pulls on my hair right as my thighs start to quake, which she knows by now means she’s about to push me over the edge. She always makes me see stars when she uses the strap-on, and tonight is no different; I cry out her name, the sound filling the room as my orgasm hits me like a ton of bricks. It’s almost too intense and I have to ask her to stop. She covers my face with kisses and tells me my voice is “beautiful”. I can still hear my so-called “beautiful voice” echoing in my ears. Maybe Seven likes hearing it, but I feel like crying. I tell myself to keep it together a little longer, because it’s going to be my turn now. And that’s going to be fun.

I can’t exactly move much after an orgasm that intense, so she lies down beside me with an arm across my stomach. Usually I’d manage to turn onto my side so we could snuggle for a little while before switching roles, but not this time.

“Seven, get me out of this damn thing.”

She figures by the sound of my voice that I’m getting into Domme mode, which is partly true because once I get there I won’t think about the sound of my voice helplessly crying out for Seven and feel like crying anymore, but mostly I want to finally put my fucking legs down. She moves to undo the straps, but I lose my patience and tell the computer to dispel the thing. As soon as I can move, I’m still about as coordinated as a shuttlepod that has lost its thrusters, but I curl up. I’ll tell her later that we’re never using that harness again. For now, Seven pulls me close and kisses my hair. “Are you ready to switch roles, my Kathryn?”

I squirm a little to see how much fine control I have over my legs now—usually, after sex with Seven, I can’t walk right for a few minutes, seeing as she has applied her usual Collective-born perfectionism to the practice of getting me off—and when I realize I can actually move most of my body, I get up and pin Seven to the mattress by her shoulders. She can’t hide her smile, and doesn’t bother to. Earlier in our relationship, I was concerned that Seven’s dominant personality would result in her wanting to Domme all the time and we’d never get to switch, but she loves subbing for me. Go figure.

I kiss her hungrily for a few moments, feeling her relax underneath me. I rake my teeth along her earlobe and whisper near her ear; she wants to hear my voice? She’ll get to. “What do you want me to do to you, my sweet Seven?”

She shivers and arches up into me. “Will you penetrate me anally with one of your strap-on accessories?” she pants.

“Oh, absolutely, my darling. Just let me play with these beauties first.” I playfully smack one of her breasts, and she yelps, but she loves it. She likes being slapped lightly, more for the sound than the pain, although not on her face (and I don’t want to do that either). “Then I’ll stretch you out with my fingers. Then you get the toy.”

“Yes, Kathryn,” she moans.

I slap both of her breasts at the same time and she cries out again. I have to be careful with her; she’s so sensitive that I can’t get her too worked up too quickly or it will be too much for her. Luckily, as she has pointed out, the number of nerves in breast tissue remains fairly constant across individuals, and since she has such full, luscious breasts, I can usually play with them all I want as long as I keep the pain to a minimum. I cradle her breasts in my hands—as much as I can, with my hands being so small—and she moans as I squeeze and massage gently. Her moan turns to a whimper as I work her nipples with the pads of my thumbs. She’s very vocal during sex, but with that musical voice of hers, I love hearing it. She continues to whimper and almost squeal as I lower my head to her chest and take one of her nipples into my mouth. I love the sensation of her nipple hardening against my tongue. I suckle gently and she squirms helplessly underneath me. “Kathryn!”

I sit up, and she makes little noises of protest at the sudden lack of contact. “What was that, my darling?”

She takes several breaths, trying to form words; apparently I have “overwhelmed her speech center”, as she might say. “Please penetrate me,” she begs.

“Already, my dear?” I stroke her hair and her face. “You can’t let me have a little more time?”

She closes her eyes. “I can let you have more time.”

“Good girl,” I soothe and immediately get to sucking on her other nipple, loving the noises she’s making. She’s trying to push herself too far, though; she’s writhing so hard under me that she nearly throws me off of her. She’s about dying to have me inside her. So I get up and kiss her, then take her by her legs and pull her to the edge of the mattress.

“Yes,” she whimpers, pulling her legs to her chest. I quickly grab two of the pillows and tuck them under her hips.

“Are you ready for my fingers, my darling?”

“Please,” she begs.

I ask the computer for a pair of latex gloves and a bottle of lubricant, and within seconds I have Seven groaning with pleasure as I gently massage her tight little opening with the pads of my thumbs. She’s trying—and mostly failing, I think—to take deep breaths, attempting to relax. She’s doing well enough at the relaxation; I press carefully with one thumb and her body yields, allowing my thumb to slip into her. She whimpers my name again as I massage her, working my thumb in a circular motion. “Can you take more?”

“I want your entire hand,” she pants.

I’m pretty sure that isn’t ever going to happen, no matter her fantasies. Not to mention I don’t think that particular fantasy would be that appealing in reality; she’s incredibly sensitive, so much so she doesn’t like having her clit touched and she can rarely enjoy vaginal penetration. So she prefers anal, and even so, I’ve never gotten more than three fingers into her. Not because it hurts, but because she feels so acutely that she doesn’t want to keep going. She comes at the drop of a hat, I swear. 

“Maybe later, my dear. This time, I don’t want you coming without permission. Understand?”

“Yes, Kathryn.”

Orgasm control was her idea. I think she’d prefer to be able to enjoy our play sessions longer, and, well, I can’t blame her. It’s hard for her, but god love her, she tries.

She does manage to hold herself together—barely—when I carefully work two tightly crossed fingers into her. She whimpers my name helplessly and squirms. She’s already on the verge of orgasm and we haven’t even moved on to the toy. “Easy now, my darling,” I murmur, caressing her slowly. “You do want my strap-on, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she begs.

“Then you have to let me stretch you out.”

She whines, words lost to her, and I use my free hand to lightly slap her inner thigh, just hard enough to hurt. She has an amazing pain tolerance, but isn’t much of a masochist; we mostly use pain play to keep her from coming too soon. It allows me to still act Domme-ly with her and for her to still practice orgasm control.

Her loud moans—unlike me, she has no misgivings about her voice—are occasionally interrupted by yelps as I uncross my fingers and try to open her up enough to take the strap-on but occasionally give her quick, sharp smacks on her thighs. I just barely manage to get three fingers inside her and I know she’s ready for the toy. “Tell me what you want, my darling,” I say, my voice low.

“I want you to penetrate me anally,” she gasps.

“I’m already doing that,” I remind her with a quick twist of my hand. She gives a cry that is almost a scream and her hips rock upward off the pillows. Oh, there is no way I’m getting the strap-on into her without her coming. I’ll have to let her. She’ll still be able to thoroughly enjoy the experience, I’m sure. “Be more specific.”

“I want you to use one of your strap-on accessories to penetrate me,” she manages in such a breathless voice that I can barely understand her.

“Soon, my darling,” I tell her, and call up the toy from the computer. I put it on myself instead of ordering her to help me, since I’m fairly sure Seven can’t move. “Are you ready?” I press the round head of the toy against her.

“Yes. Please,” she moans, her voice almost unrecognizable.

I press forward slowly with my hips, guiding the toy with my hand. “You can come while I’m doing this. I know you’ll need to.” I’m always scared of hurting her at this point, no matter how much we do it. I meet with enough resistance that I almost give up and pull away when the toy slides past the tight band of muscle just inside her. She whimpers helplessly and her body quivers as I ease forward until my hips are flush with the backs of her thighs. It was just a small orgasm, to take the edge off, but she needed it. I give her a few seconds to recover, holding position with my toy all the way inside her, running my hands over her legs. Eventually she articulates my name and I ask her, “Do you want more?” She can’t speak, only nod, so I begin rocking my hips slowly. I know how she likes it; I don’t move only back and forth, but move my hips in a slightly elliptical motion so she feels the toy move deep into her and stretch her out. Language remains lost to her as she cries out for me in helpless noises and fragments of words.

I gaze down at her, half in awe of how beautiful she is when incoherent with pleasure, half jealous. I could never stand to be that helpless in front of her. I let her fuck my brains out, but I never relax enough to completely let go the way she does. Tonight was the closest I have ever come to that, and…no, not now, wait until we do aftercare.

I recognize when her noises turn almost pained that she can’t hold on much longer and I tell her, “You can come, my dear.” She does almost before the words are out of my mouth, long shudders shaking her body until she lies still. I withdraw the toy and remove it from the program before leaning over and kissing Seven. “You did very well, Seven,” I tell her.

“Thank you,” she says when she finds words again.

I nuzzle close to her. “Aftercare now?”

She pulls me close, carefully, not wanting to hurt me with her enhanced Borg strength. “Yes.”

The tears I swallowed earlier erupt. “I’m never letting you put me in that harness again.”

“Kathryn, are you crying?” She edges back from me, surprised. “Why did you neglect to communicate your feelings of discomfort during the scene?”

“Guess I was trying to push my limits,” I say grimly. “Well, that and I wasn’t about to cry while subbing for you.”

“Oh, my Kathryn…” She kisses my face. “You truly would be uncomfortable crying in front of me?”

“Not in general. But when I’m subbing for you.”

Seven caresses my hair. “Why is that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, trying not to sob.

“Do you not want to appear vulnerable in front of me?”

I close my eyes. “Yes.”

Seven sighs. “Thank you for your honesty. I wish you were more comfortable with me.”

“There might be things I’m comfortable with around you. More now than when we first got together. But I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable being noisy in bed or being restrained in embarrassing positions. I’m not into humiliation. I’m just not. And I won’t ever be.” The words rush out of me and I feel a strange sense of relief.

“I understand,” says Seven in a low voice. She sifts her fingers through my sweaty hair. “I will not suggest using the harness again.”

I swallow. “Thank you.”

“I wish that you were not humiliated by the sound of your own voice.” She sounds almost mournful.

I nuzzle close to her. “I’ve never liked my voice. It’s even been mocked.”

“It was cruel of whoever mocked you to do so. I am very fond of your voice. It is calming to me.”

I snicker. “Calming?”

“And occasionally exciting. Such as tonight, when I wanted to hear you cry out before it was my turn to be submissive.”

“Seriously?” I blurt out. “Hearing me make an ass of myself makes you hot?”

“Hearing you experience pleasure excites me,” she corrects me gently, then kisses my hair.

“I’m so glad,” I groan sarcastically, pressing my forehead against the base of her neck.

“My Kathryn…” she cups my chin with one hand and lifts my face up so she can look me in the eyes. “Are you truly so displeased with your own voice that you refer to crying out during sexual relations as ‘making an ass of yourself’?”

I close my eyes. I can’t meet her gaze. “When it’s that loud? Yes.”

She makes an unhappy noise and gives me a little squeeze. “The timbre of your voice is unusual, but I am very fond of it, and I am nonplussed by the motivation of anyone who would mock you for it.”

I squirm so I can get my head tucked under her chin. “Thank you.”

“Do you believe you will ever come to peace with the sound of your voice?”

I honestly don’t know. Maybe, especially if she keeps telling me she likes it. But not if she keeps me from stifling my voice when I’m subbing for her.

“Possibly,” I hazard. “But for now, I’m putting a hard limit on you doing that thing you did tonight where you pulled on my hair so I couldn’t…you know.”

“Stifle the sounds you were making,” Seven finishes.

I flush darkly. I can’t even articulate what I mean; she has to do it for me. She’s right that I’m being a little ridiculous about my voice, but…

“I am sorry you feel so insecure regarding your voice. I hope one day you feel less so.” She kisses my forehead.

“Why? So you can listen to me make noise?” I’m being sullen, but I don’t care. I guess I get sullen when I’m embarrassed.

“Because I care for you, and I believe you have no reason to feel insecure.”

I can never be sullen in the face of that kind of sincerity from her for very long. “Thank you.” I sigh. “I should feel lucky I finally have someone I don’t have to be quiet for.”

Seven slides a hand up and down my back. It’s wonderfully comforting. “My Kathryn, I don’t wish to give you orders when you are not my submissive. But I wish that I could speak a few words and have the result be you no longer feeling ashamed of your voice or crying in front of me during one of our scenes.”

I start to cry again, this time with gratefulness. I briefly wonder if I deserve someone so generous. “Maybe one day,” I whisper into the soft skin of her upper chest.

She holds me tightly. “I hope so.”

One day. One day soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I...had no idea how to end this.


End file.
